Read Online Hunting Season: A Novel by Andrea Camilleri - Free Book Online

it must have been an effect of the dancing light of the oil lamp—like she was laughing.

    “We’re going to put Mamma to bed, and then we’re going out,” said ’Ntontò. “We’re going to midnight Mass: me, Peppinella, and Mimì.”
    “Mimì, too?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sure he’ll have to attend quite a few Masses before he atones for all his sins.”
    “What are you going to do, Papà? Go to the Circolo?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    He remained seated a long time at the now cleared table, taking sips of wine every so often. Then, when he was certain that everyone was gone, he headed for Rico’s room. It was years since he had last set foot in it, and it immediately looked much smaller than he remembered. He set the lamp down on a table and looked around. It all gave him a strange feeling he couldn’t explain, and the more he looked at things, the stronger the impression became. Suddenly he understood. This was the bedroom of a grown man; one could see it in the size of the bed, the clothes, the shoes, and the rifle propped in a corner, which Bonocore had apparently recovered in the woods. Yet at the same time it was also the bedroom of a little boy, an impression that came from the drawings stuck to the wall, which Rico had recently made and which portrayed, in infantile fashion, Papà , Mamma , and My sister ’Ntontò , going by the words written under each picture. Don Filippo opened the desk drawer and found a stack of paper, every sheet covered likewise with drawings of the same subject: a goat. Looking at them one by one, the marchese could see just how diligently Rico had begun to make progress; in fact, the last sheet was a genuine portrait of Carmelina. Rico had colored it and even got the shadings right. In a sudden fit of anger of which he was hardly aware, he tossed the sheet into the air and went out.
    What kind of bloody Christmas Eve is this? he asked himself. I think I’ll go to the club and gamble one of my properties .
    He felt overcome with fatigue, however, and his shoulders ached as if he had been carrying a heavy load. Very slowly he opened the door to Donna Matilde’s room and looked inside. Only one small lamp was lit, and he felt reassured. He didn’t want there to be much light. If his wife saw him and recognized him, she was liable to start another riot.
    He sat down in an armchair at the foot of the bed. Donna Matilde was sleeping with her mouth open, and every now and then emitted a moan. Don Filippo slowly reached out and rested his hand on his wife’s cheek; then he withdrew it, brought it to his nose, and inhaled. Nothing. His hand smelled only of rancid sweat. He stayed a little while longer, watching Donna Matilde, then spoke to her.
    “I’m going to spend the night with you. Merry Christmas, Matì.”
    When ’Ntontò, back from Mass, went to check on her mother, she saw Don Filippo asleep. She didn’t wake him.

    The marchese took the road to Le Zubbie at a gallop, as if he were being pursued, and arrived in such a rush in front of the house that he very nearly frightened to death Trisina, Maddalena, and Pirrotta, who was saying goodbye to the two women before heading back to Pian dei Cavalli.
    “Natà, can’t you wait till tomorrow morning to leave? You need to explain something to me.”
    That evening, after supper, the two men sat down near the well, and the marchese asked Pirrotta how he could build himself a small fireplace in his bedroom.
    “Why don’t you hire a stonemason?”
    “Because I want to make it with my own hands. Don’t you worry, I can do it. Anyway, it’ll help me pass the time.”
    “But you have to climb up on the roof, which is dangerous. My poor wife certainly learned that.”
    “Pirrò, I want to do it my way. Have you got the necessary tools?”
    “You’ll find everything you need in the house.”
    After listening to Pirrotta’s instructions, the marchese felt sleepy. He said goodbye to his field watcher, who would be leaving